Just Like You
by anonymousheart
Summary: She's fourteen years old. She has no idea who she is - was, at least, before she ended up in the custody of HYDRA. She doesn't even know what HYDRA is, just that she's their personal pet, and that SHIELD is their greatest enemy. Whatever SHIELD is. All she knows is that she's been lied to, that she doesn't belong at HYDRA HQ, and the name that could have the answers: Clint Barton.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The girl had light brown hair and storm-grey eyes. She was lean, lithe, and the information he'd been given said that she was extraordinarily athletic. Track and field, competitive swimming, gymnastics, girls' basketball, soccer, judo, and, most importantly, archery. She was the fastest and most agile runner on her track team. She could swim faster and longer than every opponent she'd faced for the past year. She was the most talented, coordinated gymnast in her class. She made every basket and goal she aimed for. No one could beat her in a judo match. And she'd come first in her age group at the Kansas State Youth Archery Championship – three years in a row. The board had agreed that she would make the best replacement for the last one despite the one drawback. That was what sealed the deal.

Marcus waited in the shadows, his eyes fixated on her as she finished her last lap of the school track and grabbed her backpack from the picnic table where her coach was waiting. They exchanged a few words before he allowed her to leave. She was allowed to leave early on Tuesdays, Marcus remembered, because of conflicting schedules with her swim practices. Not that she'd get there.

Marcus pitied the girl for her fate. She was completely oblivious to her stalker as she began the walk to the community pool, probably expecting to get there fifteen minutes early as usual and be in the water swimming laps and treading water before the others had even arrived.

She noticed the van, he could tell. But she didn't see it as any threat. Marcus winced at the thought of what they would do to her, and suddenly he wished she would run. Put up a fight. Anything. It had been too easy to catch the others a few years before. Marcus just wanted the girl to have a chance. He knew that as long as she started running, he had an excuse to let her get away. He picked up the pace to twenty miles an hour. The girl merely glanced back at the approaching van and quickened her pace to a faster walk. Marcus bit his lip. Not fast enough.

He pulled up on the curb in front of her and got out, focusing directly on her. She stopped and took a step back, just out of arm's reach. Her eyes filled with caution. Not fear, like the others, merely a wariness. _Kid, just run!_ Marcus wanted to shout. But that would get him killed, and she wouldn't be any safer than before. "Hello, Fräulein," he said, forcing himself not to recoil at his own German accent. He'd come to hate it over the past year. Anything that reminded him of his past.

"Sir," she said curtly, her eyes getting more guarded. "Can I help you?"

"Well," Marcus said, stepping forwards. "Maybe not me, but I think my boss would love to meet you." He made sure to word this very carefully, so she might understand. She was a straight-A student, after all. All honors classes, too. And from the look of horror on her face, Marcus felt a wave of relief ripple through him.

She turned and ran off at a sprint, much faster than he had been anticipating. "Keep running, Fräulein," he whispered as he took his time getting back into the van. "Good God, just keep on running."

And he turned the van around and followed.

The girl wove her way between houses and shops, trying desperately to lose him. Marcus forced himself to accelerate, knowing he had to make this look like a real chase. The boss was always watching, he knew, and if he didn't make an effort, that would be the end of him.

The radio scanner buzzed with another agent's voice. Warren's, possibly. "_Marcus, she's getting away! Faster!_" He revved the engine and complied.

Marcus was catching up, and the girl could tell. Marcus saw her strides get longer and faster, her movements more desperate. People were starting to gawk, reaching for their pockets in search of cell phones. Trying to help by calling the police. That never worked, either.

Just as the girl began to increase her lead, Marcus's worst fear struck: she tripped and went sprawling on the concrete. _Shit_, the old man thought. _Hot damn, girl, get up!_ She struggled for a moment, trying to get back to her feet, but then she went limp. "What the hell—" Marcus whispered, but then the helicopter descended.

"_Ah, Marcus. The man who wanted to be a hero,_" crooned the boss's voice over the radio. Marcus pulled up next to the girl's unconscious form and swallowed a cry of fear. "_You've been a wonderful asset to us, but recently we've noticed that your performance has – ah – deteriorated. So, we're going to have to let you go, old man. You've lost your use._" Just as Marcus noticed the tranquilizer dart in the girl's shoulder, the moment that he had been trying to outrun for years arrived.

He knew it when the black-clad HYDRA agents swarmed the girl, when they surrounded the car, and that brief moment when he heard the firing of the gun, the shattering of glass, and the quick, sharp pain in his temple.

And then there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One  
><strong>_Six months later_

Every day was the same. She woke up in the same, white-walled room, with the same IV in her arm releasing the same unknown fluids into her bloodstream, with the same tubes in her throat pumping the same stale air into her lungs. She was always dressed in the same all-black uniform. And more often than not, she found herself staring up at the same intern-like scientist, standing in the same position over her bed, scribbling in the same hurried fashion onto the same beat-up clipboard. For some reason, she was okay to waking up at the same time, in the same place, and to the same condition as always, with the machine controlling her breathing and the IV filling her with whatever the strange blood-red liquid was. What she wasn't okay with was that _he_ – the intern, that is – was always there.

The scratching of the pencil onto the paper was deafening, and she was never sure how long he'd been there. The scratching always wove itself into her dreams somehow, so she knew his nosy observations began while she was still asleep, but still… Was he there throughout the night, watching her sleep? That was such a freaky thought she always choked on her own breathing tube.

As soon as four or five black-clad men with hidden faces had successfully managed to extract the pesky tubes from her windpipe, they'd surround her and lead her from the room, leaving the redheaded, buck-toothed intern behind. There were two different places she'd be taken over the course of the day. First they'd go to some sort of medical center, where these two ladies dressed in nurses' uniforms would check her 'physical condition,' as they put it, and would scribble something down on clipboards like the redhead had.

Then she'd be ushered to a room with a buff, gruff man with bulging muscles would 'exercise' her. Each workout went relatively the same. She'd have to run on a treadmill for two to three hours, getting faster and faster until a certain point, when she'd slow down to cool off. For the next three hours, she'd do pushups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. And then the trainer would have her put on a weighted vest, get into the pool, and swim laps until she was gasping for breath. This normally took two and a half hours. After seven and a half to eight and a half hours of continual exercise, she'd be exhausted. Bone-tired. Barely functioning. And her coach would make her do gymnastics.

The first day she'd been in the training facility, she'd passed out during the pull-ups and almost cracked her skull. The second day, she'd almost drowned within the first minute in the pool. And the third day, she'd crawled out of the water, gotten up onto the beam he'd set up for her, and ended up slipping to the floor and bruising her tailbone.

Now though, she had to push through her exhaustion and pull herself together. He'd tell her what to do, and she'd do it. How she knew what to do, she had no idea. He'd never taught her how to do any of the things he requested of her, but she could do them anyway. They'd move from the beam to a bar, and she'd have to push her flexibility and agility to the limit. And when he was satisfied with her work, he'd tell her to get down and lead her to the archery range.

At first, she hadn't been able to even hit the target. Her quivering, overworked muscles would twitch at exactly the wrong time, and the arrow would go wide. But after weeks of practice, she'd graduated from such easy targets. Now, she could hit anything. Moving or still, close or far away, from the size of an elephant to the size of a nickel. And she wasn't bad with knives and guns, either. Anything the trainer handed her, she could use as a weapon. Forks? She used those as throwing knives. Pencils? Those were good for stabbing. Cotton balls? Please. When he presented her with a bag of them, she stuffed them down the creepily realistic practice dummy's throat and stood back proudly, pointing out that a real person would suffocate. That particular stunt earned her extra points for creativity.

Then she'd return to the nurses and they'd re-examine her. After the lengthy check-up, the nurses would inject her with some sort of sleeping medication, and she'd be out like a light. From there, she'd worked out that someone bathed her, re-dressed her in a fresh uniform, and put her away on the bed in her room, where the intern was waiting to "observe" her as she slept.

It was on a day after about six months of rigorous training that her "always-the-same" schedule changed.

When she woke up, the IV wasn't there. Neither was the breathing machine. She was in the same place, still, and the freaky intern was still there, but they (whoever "they" was) had taken her off of the medications she'd been on. She sat up slowly, blinking at the brightness of the usually-dim lights, and looked down at herself. The uniform was mostly the same, but now she had an empty gun holster at her hip, and there were black combat boots sitting next to her bed. She pulled them on and laced up the strings, tying them tightly before standing. They were a perfect fit. She looked at the intern, who was still scratching away at his clipboard and eyeing her carefully. She turned her attention away from him, to the door. It was open.

She weighed her options carefully and looked at the intern again. He paused his obnoxious scribbling and stared right on back, his expression blank. _This is a test_, she thought. She took a few silent steps forwards. The intern followed, confirming her theory. "Alright, then," she murmured, quiet enough so only she could hear herself. Then she turned and stepped through the door.

For the first time since she'd woken up, she paid attention to her surroundings. White walls, white tile flooring, and silvery-metal doors every once and a while up and down the hall. She looked both ways, gaging her options. Both sides of the hallway looked relatively the same. Deserted, sterile-clean, and blindingly white.

The masked men always took her to the right. That was where the two nurses were. But left… she'd never been left before. She decided to take her chances and allowed curiosity to take over. Left it was.

She began to move, really move. A silent, speedy walk, taking everything in as she made her way forwards. The intern behind her was forced to jog to keep up. She had absolutely no prior knowledge to go off of on what to do besides keep moving, so she was relying on instinct to guide her. And her first instinct was to ditch her pursuer.

The girl broke into a sprint, and the intern gave a gasp from behind her as she took off. She could hear him struggling to keep up, but it wasn't long before the red-head gave up the chase. Good. The girl slowed her pace to a steady jog, following the curve of the hallway and taking a left/right/left/right pattern when she was presented with a fork.

Along the way, she bumped into a crew of six black-clad men, easily passing them by leaping high over their heads, curling her body into a ball, and flipping. She landed in a somersault and kept going. No one stopped her. It seemed they didn't notice anything was off about her. No one cared that she wasn't being supervised. That didn't matter to the girl. She was following her next instinct: get up high, hide, and observe. She could make a decision from there.

She had entered a busier area. Much busier. There were much more people, all of whom stared as she made her way past. She turned left, and was suddenly facing a set of open double doors that opened into a sort of cafeteria area. There was one woman sitting at a table, who looked up from her salad and gave the girl a smile. "Clint," she said calmly, giving the teen a knowing smile. "Good to see you up and running again."

The girl skidded to a halt and gazed at the woman warily. Crisp white lab coat, silver wire-rimmed glasses, dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. In her late forties, by the girl's estimation. "Ma'am," she said quietly, nodding in greeting. Her voice was rough, deeper than she thought it should be. "Do I know you?"

"You used to. I'm Doctor Greene. You and I were quite close before the accident."

"Accident?" the girl repeated.

Dr. Greene nodded sadly. "Ah, yes. You were crushed by several tons of drywall. We had to completely re-construct your face. You were in a coma for almost two months while your body healed. From what we can tell since your recovery, you've lost much of your memory. However, our neuroscientists believe that with the right pokes and prods, you'll be able to regain those memories, even if it takes a while."

The girl nodded again. "You called me 'Clint'," she stated.

"Clint Barton. That's your name. You're one of our highest ranking agents. One of the best. I'm glad you've recovered. Welcome back, Clint."

"Clint," the girl repeated. _Is that my name?_ she wondered. _I thought Clint was a man's name. I'm a guy?_ Confusion clouded her thoughts. _Oh well. It's all I've got to go on. For now, I'll have to accept that and keep moving._ "Is this a test? Leaving the door open to see what I'd do?"

"Very good, Clint," Dr. Greene praised. "Sharp as always. Yes, this was intended to be a test. The door was left open to observe what you'd do. Carl was left to follow you, though I see you've managed to lose him. That's also good. I knew if you were back to your old self, you wouldn't let that silly little intern stalk you. I tried to tell the other doctors it wasn't a viable strategy, but they were sure he'd be able to keep up."

Clint nodded, not saying anything. Dr. Greene rolled on. "Anyway, I'm glad you found me. You're expected on the third floor, room 405 A. Your teammates are anxiously awaiting your arrival."

"Teammates?"

"Steve, Tony, Thor, Bruce and Natasha. Natasha is probably getting antsy by now, so I'd hurry up if I were you. She's not one to be kept waiting," Dr. Greene warned. Clint nodded again. "So… go."

Clint turned and started to walk away, before turning back around. "What floor is this?"

Dr. Greene smiled. "Second."

"Thanks. See you later… I guess."

"Oh, you will," Dr. Greene promised, her eyes gleaming with unreadable emotion and an amused smile on her face.

For some reason, Clint wasn't eager to see the scientist again.

Getting to the third floor wasn't too difficult. Clint simply squeezed through the air vents and found a grate on the floor above. She gazed out silently, looking at the number above the nearest door. _389 A. Dr. Greene said to go to 405 A._

The girl slithered along on her belly like a snake until she got to the next grate. _394 A_. At least the numbers were getting bigger. The next opening revealed 399 A. The one after that was 404 A. And there was an option on which way to go.

Clint wriggled towards the opposite side of the hallway, into the air ducts of room 404 A. If her assumptions were correct, the vent there would have grates into 404 A and 405 A. And she was in luck. A vent covering on her right led into a dark room full of treadmills, and one on her left showed a lit room with five figures.

From what Clint could see, the rooms were connected. They both held exercise equipment. A gym? Most likely. One of the figures, a muscular blonde boy with long hair, was bench-pressing at least one hundred pounds in weight. A smaller young man with darker skin and black-brown hair sat on another bench, arms crossed and foot tapping nervously. There were two other boys in Clint's sight, another muscular blonde (though with darker, shorter hair) was leaning against a pillar that was supporting the ceiling, and a stockier guy with close-cropped black hair was sitting on a rack of weights. Then the girl came into view. Lithe, lean, and curvy, with fiery curls, porcelain-pale skin and fierce green eyes.

"He'll be here, Natasha," the dirty-blonde one said soothingly, as if talking to a spooked horse. _That's Steve_, Clint's brain threw in helpfully. How Clint knew, however, was a mystery. They were all familiar, she supposed, but at the same time she felt like she'd never seen them before.

_Steve Rogers_, the calming presence, _Tony Stark_, the one sitting on the rack of weights and swinging his feet around like a little kid, _Bruce Banner_, the small, nervous one, and _Thor_, the bench-pressing maniac (who hadn't slowed down his pace). And the girl… _Natasha Romanoff_. Clint felt a wave of affection roll over her as their names popped up in her head, but Natasha sent shivers down Clint's spine.

But… it felt almost like those feelings weren't Clint's. Sure, she recognized them all, knowing them by name and that they were her friends, but it was like seeing them all for the first time. She didn't have a clue who they were – not really.

"Shut up," Natasha hissed. "I know he'll be here."

"Then calm down!" Tony exclaimed. "You're making Banner start to freak. You know how he gets when he's distressed."

"Shut up," both Natasha and Bruce chorused, the latter quickly looking down at the floor, his face flushed.

"Natasha, look at me," Steve said calmly. The red head whirled to glare at him, pausing her pacing. "He. Will. Be. Here. Just relax, okay? They said he was fine, just a little facial reconstruction and a bit of memory loss. He's still the same Clint."

"Memory loss is a big deal to me, Rogers," Natasha snapped. "He… if he forgot me…"

Steve set a hand on Natasha's shoulder comfortingly. "Please. You _know _Clint. Do you really think he's forgotten all about you?"

Natasha hesitated before slowly shaking her head. "No. He couldn't have," she said uncertainly, as if she were trying to convince herself. "Clint wouldn't forget me. Never."

Steve started talking again, something soothing, no doubt, but Clint wasn't listening. _Do I remember her?_ Clint asked herself. A few dim memories flickered to mind. They were hazy, as if static-filled, and Clint yet again wondered as if these thoughts, like her emotions, were really her own.

Almost silently, she pushed open the grate into 404 A, tumbling softly into the dark room. The rooms were connected by a door, slightly ajar, and Clint pushed it open wider before emerging into 405 A. The others paid her no attention, not noticing as she slipped unseen behind another piece of equipment. Natasha was talking again, saying something about how she wished he would _freaking hurry up_ (though she didn't use the word 'freaking') and Clint made her decision. She stepped out into the light and cleared her throat.

Five pairs of eyes flicked over to her, silence filling the room. After a moment's pause, Clint gave a devilish grin (that felt natural yet foreign on her lips) and said, "Hey. Anybody miss me?"

Before she could blink, Natasha had moved to stand in front of her, kissed her passionately on the lips, and proceeded to slap her. Hard.

"Uh, ow!" Clint protested.

"Where do you think you were?" Natasha snapped, smacking her again before Clint could even reply or register the fact that Natasha had kissed her.

"Uh… the second floor?"

"Oh, very funny. I've really missed this. Do you really think you can just waltz back in here with a few quips and trademark smirks and—" At this point she slipped into Russian, her birth language (which Clint yet again seemed to know for no reason), and Clint looked over at the guys with her best "what did I do" look. Bruce looked relieved. Thor and Tony were immersed in a fit of silent giggles. Steve just looked at ease, both amused and content with the situation.

Natasha paused her rant for a moment, breathing heavily. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths to compose herself, and looked Clint in the eyes once more. "Can I speak to you in private?" she asked, her tone neutral as if nothing had just happened.

"But—" Clint looked over to the four others. "I wanna—"

"There's time to get reacquainted later, Barton," Natasha said simply, seizing her upper arm and dragging her towards the door.

Thor chuckled and waved. Tony smirked and whispered, "Use protection, Legolas." Bruce was blushing and studying his shoes again, and Steve sighed.

"Be nice, Romanoff," Steve warned.

"Whatever," Natasha called without looking back. The last thing Clint saw was the pitying look in Steve's eyes before the door to 405 A closed, leaving Clint and Natasha alone in the deserted hallway. Natasha dragged him straight across the hall to 405 B, punching in a four-digit key code and pushing open the door easily. Clint was dragged in behind her, wincing as her knee collided with the metal door frame. Natasha didn't care. She simply shut the door and locked it before shoving Clint up against it to study her face. The room was dimly lit, only enough light for Clint to just barely see Natasha's face.

"You look different," Natasha said after a moment. Her green eyes were unreadable… almost. The look in them was one that Clint had trouble deciphering, but it almost looked like… lust? "What they've done to your face…" she brushed a hand across Clint's cheek before cupping Clint's chin in her hand. "Well, it might take some getting used to, but… you're still damn gorgeous."

Clint swallowed, feeling color rushing to her cheeks. This intimacy with Natasha was both alien and natural to her. Part of her wanted to scoop up the redhead and crush their lips together, while another was screaming at her that this was wrong, all wrong. Instinct versus a gut feeling – that was something Clint didn't like to choose between.

Natasha was obviously more skilled in decision-making, however. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Clint lightly on the lips, less forceful than in the gym, but still full of passion. The red head's eyes fluttered closed, and she sighed contentedly. Clint was unsure how to react. For a moment, she just stood there, unmoving, but after a moment she set her hands on Natasha's waist and reluctantly kissed her back.

Natasha's hands moved to Clint's shoulders, and she pressed against Clint and deepened the kiss a little more. Clint's breath hitched. She really didn't like where this was going… And apparently Natasha could sense that. The Russian pulled away, slightly out of breath. "Sorry," she said shamelessly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's just been too long since I've gotten to do that."

Clint nodded. "It's fine," she said quietly.

"I shouldn't have done that," Natasha said, her gaze leaving Clint's face. "You weren't expecting it, were you?"

"No, but it's fine," Clint assured her immediately, unable to stop the words from escaping. It didn't feel like something she wanted to say, really; they were more of an immediate reaction. A default response that was programmed into her brain. "It was a… pleasant surprise." Also not something she'd wanted to say.

Natasha seemed happy with that answer, though. "We'll just take it slow from here, then," she said calmly, as if that decided it. "Cap said you were having memory issues, and I won't pressure you to remember."

She turned away and retreated further into the dark room, pulling the cord on a lamp. Clint blinked from the sudden light and noticed that they were in a sort of bedroom. _Sleeping quarters_, she realized. Three bunk beds were against the walls, the fourth wall taken up by a small kitchen area. Natasha pulled down the covers on the nearest bottom bunk and slid in, looking at Clint expectantly.

Clint made her way over, sliding in next to Natasha almost robotically. Natasha pulled the blankets over them both and snuggled up next to Clint, resting her head on the other girl's shoulder and closing her eyes. After a few minutes of lying awake, staring up at the wooden paneling of the top bunk, Clint realized from the soft, deep breaths that Natasha had fallen asleep.

_So_, Clint thought. _I'm in some sort of relationship with Natasha. I'm her… what, boyfriend? That doesn't make _any_ sense. I might not have all my memory, but I'm pretty damn sure I'm not a guy. What the heck does this all mean, then?_ Clint was beginning to really worry. The Clint that Natasha knew was a guy. The memories that Clint had were _off_, as if they weren't her own. And the way Clint seemed to be… _programmed_ to respond in certain ways… It got Clint thinking. Worrying. _Panicking_.

_I'm a girl. I have false memories. I act on instinct that isn't mine. They only _told_ me that my name is Clint Barton. Who is 'they' anyway? What is this place? Why am I here? If I'm Clint Barton, why does this all feel so _wrong_?_ Questions exploded like fireworks inside Clint's brain, all demanding answers that she couldn't provide. But they all paled in comparison to the big question that sprouted last: _If I'm not Clint Barton – and I'm pretty sure I'm not – then who am I?_

The girl didn't have an answer.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**  
>Three weeks later, SHIELD Headquarters, Washington DC<br>**The Real Clint Barton's POV**

His eyes scanned the tower warily from a distance, noting every lit window and minor detail there was in the architecture. He'd been there before, of course. Only four times, though. To Clint, that wasn't enough to feel completely safe. Sure, it was SHIELD. Sure, he should have been completely at ease. This was home territory, after all. The Triskelion, SHIELD HQ, Washington DC. But that didn't necessarily make everything better.

Someone fell into step with him as he got closer to his destination. He didn't even need to look to know who it was. "Tasha," he said curtly in greeting.

"Clint," she replied. He could hear a hint of amusement in her voice. "Still uncomfortable with the surroundings, I see," she commented. He snorted, not replying, but he didn't have to say anything. She knew it was true.

Clint sneaked a glance at her and smirked. Natasha was alert, ready to go after a few months of barely any field work. She was dying for some action. He could relate. He was raring to go, too. Tasha caught him looking and sighed. "What is it now, Barton?"

"It's just funny to see you so excited," Clint replied. "Normally you'd be all stoic and guarded."

She shook her head. "It's just you and me, Clint. To a regular person, I'm just a woman on a walk with her boyfriend." What she said registered in his mind, but before he could respond, Natasha made a big show of bumping hips with him affectionately and laughing. He played along, grinning like an idiot, because she was right: to all the regular civilians, they were just another couple wandering down the street. Clint was okay with that.

He'd been her boyfriend, fiancé, husband, dancing partner, you name it. Once, when he posed as a wealthy businessman, she'd even been his mistress. Clint and Natasha had been in practically every sort of relationship for undercover work. Clint had lost count of how many. But their actual relationship… that was a mystery.

'Love is for children' seemed to be Natasha's motto. Did Clint love her? Well… yes and no. He didn't want to admit it to her, but he'd die if he lost her. At the same time, he wasn't sure how to classify their relationship. They were closer than friends, much closer. Closer than a boyfriend and a girlfriend. It wasn't a commitment, but Clint knew that if someone asked him on a date, he'd say no, and something told him that Natasha would do the same. 'Friends with benefits' was probably the best definition, but Clint despised that term. It made him feel uncomfortable on a whole other level.

Clint liked when he got paired up with Natasha for undercover work. He could treat her like the queen she was, dancing with her at parties while he searched for their targets, fawning over her in public when they were waiting for orders to kill, and shower her with extra affection. Of course, Natasha didn't like being pampered or spoiled; she'd only accept it all to a certain extent. But Clint knew her better than anyone, and he was always able to tell when to back off.

He only broke out of his trance when she stopped. He turned to face her, confusion evident in his face, and she gazed at him with a curious expression, like a cat eyeing a mouse. "What's on your mind, Barton?" she mused softly, cocking her head slightly and giving him a knowing look. Clint struggled to keep his face blank, knowing that even a hint of emotion allowed her to read him like a book.

For a moment, blue eyes gazed into green, holding a silent staring match. Finally, Clint said, "It's not important."

To which she simply smirked and replied, "You're a terrible liar."

* * *

><p>The club was crowded. The stale scent of smoke was heavy in the air. It was dimly lit with ancient lights, probably older than Clint. Bodies twisted and writhed around them, dancing more to the vibration of the speakers than the music that had been drowned out by the sound of voices.<p>

He and Natasha were dancing, more intimately than usual due to their surroundings. Clint was struggling to distract himself, searching for their target, but already sweat was beginning to form on his back and forehead. Soon, he'd look like the rest of the club did: hot, wild, and drenched in their own sweat.

Tasha came to an abrupt stop and said something that he couldn't hear. "What?" he shouted, getting a little worried when he could barely hear himself over the deafening soundtrack of the club.

She leaned closer. "Let's get a drink," she repeated, and he nodded. Nat took his hand and led the way through the swarm to the bar.

While Tasha ordered, Clint took the time to scan the room quickly. Their target was a guy in his late thirties, big and hairy and with the tattoo of a snake on his neck. A drug dealer. None of the other people in the room matched the description, and Clint tore his gaze away from the dance floor as Natasha came over carrying two drinks. Clint took one, recoiling at the strong taste. "What is this?" he asked.

Tasha shrugged. "Not sure. The bartender said on the house, and that was good enough for me."

Clint glanced back at the bartender, a guy in his early twenties who was staring at Natasha with a mixture of lust and greed in his eyes. Clint shot him a warning glare, and the kid got the message: _paws off. Mine_.

"I don't see our guy," Natasha said, her eyes traveling carefully over everything. "I'm thinking he's a no-show."

"Alright. Let's split, then meet at the door. If neither of us finds him, we'll leave. I'm getting sick of the smell in here," Clint suggested. Nat nodded, and before he could blink she'd disappeared into the crowd. Clint wove through at a different angle, leaving his glass on a table and continuing through in search of the target.

Maybe it was the smell. Maybe he was just too tired after spending almost four hours in the place dancing with Tasha. Whatever it was, Clint didn't notice the group of men closing in around him. He wasn't expecting the needle when it was jabbed into his shoulder. And he was unprepared when suddenly the already dim light was fading, and the last thing he felt was four pairs of hands grabbing him and dragging him away.

A few days later, HYDRA HQ, Location Unknown  
><strong>The Fake Clint Barton's POV<strong>

Clint had come to accept that escaping the dreaded daily routine of "checkup-workout-checkup-sleep" hadn't really been an escape at all. Even if she now knew where she was, a HYDRA base in North America, it wasn't much better. Just as before, each day was the same. He – she, as she still believed she was – woke up with Natasha snuggled into her side as usual. She didn't always fall asleep with Tasha in her bed, but during the night, the other girl would find an excuse to climb up to Clint's bunk to cuddle. It still made Clint _very_ uncomfortable, but Tasha had kept her word: they were taking things slow… or at least as slowly as possible.

Each day, Clint would squirm out of bed, take a shower, get dressed silently, and eat breakfast while Natasha snoozed on. Someone would come give Clint an injection, something that the doctors had wanted her to take just to prevent any more memory loss. Then she had to wake Natasha up.

The first day back had been a learning experience. Instead of waking the redhead up, Clint had simply gone to exercise. When Natasha woke up a few hours later and found Clint 'missing,' she'd given a scream (rumor had it that her shriek had been heard all across the building) and ran out into the hallway to find Clint and the others already coming to her aid.

This of course had led to another tantrum in Russian, "private conversation," and a not so "taking it slow" moment that made Clint, if possible, even more uncomfortable. Natasha decided then and there that when Clint got up, she was up as well. No one argued with Natasha.

Then the day came when everything – for once – actually changed. Clint was in the gym, trying to teach Steve how to shoot with a crossbow, when it happened.

Just as Steve let his arrow fly (missing the target, of course), there was a muffled, wild scream. A scream like a tortured man's.

The entire gym went silent, no one daring to move as whoever it was screamed again. Clint was the first to react, seizing her favorite bow and making for the door, the others at her heels with their own weapons of choice (Thor had a dumbbell, Natasha a handful of throwing knives, and Steve carrying his shield). Clint paused, flattening herself against the wall next to the door and listening again. The others did the same.

It came again, a wordless wail, though Clint could now make out another voice shouting. She looked to Steve, waiting for his verdict, and at his command, Clint pushed open the door and whirled around, leveling her bow at—

"Clint," Dr. Greene and the two black-clad guards had their hands raised. "Please point that somewhere else."

Clint didn't lower the bow. "What's going on?" she growled in her oddly low voice. Up the hallway, Steve and Tony cautiously peeked out from the doorway of their lab.

"I think you have some explaining to do," Steve said coldly, moving forwards. The HYDRA emblem on his shield glared at the Doctor pointedly.

"Steve," she began carefully. "You need to listen. This floor is dedicating to housing HYDRA agents and a few of our high-maintenance captives. Now, for the past few months, you six are the only ones who have been using this floor. Now, however, that's been changed. We've captured a SHIELD agent, a high-ranking one, and we're trying to glean whatever information from him we can. He, however, doesn't want to."

SHIELD. Just like HYDRA, the word held little meaning to Clint. They were two rival agencies, and that was all she knew. No one could or would tell her any more than that. She worked for HYDRA. Well, 'worked'… more like 'enslaved'. She didn't get sick days, vacation, anything. She was a prisoner in this building, confined to the third floor. It didn't seem to bother the others, just Clint.

She'd had enough of secrets. She raised her bow again, and the doctor took a step back, alarmed. The others gasped. "Clint, what are you doing?!" Dr. Greene squeaked.

"I want answers," Clint snarled. "I haven't gotten a straight response from you ever since I got out of that hellhole you call a hospital room."

"Clint, all you have to do is ask! Just point that somewhere else!" Dr. Greene said, still in shock. Natasha tried to set a hand on Clint's shoulder, but the brunette shook her off.

"I _have_ been asking," Clint hissed. "And you've been playing games."

"Clint," Natasha warned, her voice cautious.

"Stay out of this, Romanoff. You haven't been helping either, getting handsy with me as often as possible." Clint ignored the gasps of her teammates and pushed away the false wave of guilt from being so harsh with her.

"Clint," Dr. Greene said tightly. "You need to calm down, alright? This isn't you—"

"Newsflash, Doctor. I'm not the same person I was before my 'accident,' if there ever was one. I want answers!" Clint snarled. Her grip on the bow tightened, and one of the guards reached for his gun. She let the arrow fly, hitting its mark with a soft thud and the sound of the man choking on his own blood. Clint shot him a second time, aiming for the man's head, and the guard was gone before he could even pull the first projectile from his chest.

"Clint!" Natasha screamed.

Strong arms wrapped around Clint's midsection, heaving her up into the air. Without thinking, she twisted around and bashed Thor upside the head with her bow. She slipped from his grasp and landed nimbly on her feet, dropping her bow and lunging as he stumbled backwards.

Someone, probably Natasha, was screaming as the two grappled, viciously clashing with wild blows to each other's faces and midsections. Thor shoved her up against the wall. "Barton, calm yourself. We're going to hurt each other—"

Thor never finished his sentence. Clint kicked him hard in every man's weak spot and dragged him to the floor with her as she fell. His head slammed into the ground, and the blonde's eyes rolled back into his head as he lost consciousness.

Clint dodged a blow from behind and whirled to face her attacker. Steve. The super soldier swung his fist before she could react, and the entire left side of Clint's face exploded with pain. Clint staggered, spitting blood from her mouth, and fell as another blow rammed into her ribcage. "Clint!" Natasha's scream sounded blurred, quiet, as if Clint was underwater. She blinked the stars from her eyes, vaguely noticing that Natasha was being held back by the remaining guard and Tony and Bruce were now standing next to the door, yelling.

Steve hefted her up and slammed her into the wall, his hands around her throat. Clint struggled weakly, her own hands prying at his vice-like grip and her entire body thrashing, but she felt so powerless with her legs dangling inches from the floor. Blood roared in Clint's ears as her chest heaved, struggling for air. "Barton, calm down," Steve ordered, his eyes boring into hers.

His words passed over her, and it was if her mind had suddenly cleared. She stopped struggling, hanging limply in his grasp, and she stared back, her no-longer panicked grey eyes meeting his stern blue gaze. Slowly, he slid down the wall so her feet were back on the floor and removed his hands from her neck.

Clint sucked in a breath of air as her knees buckled. She would've fallen on her face if Steve wasn't there to catch her. "Easy, Barton," he chuckled softly. She said nothing, shivering madly as he set her on the floor. "I've got you."

Natasha finally freed herself from the guard's grasp and rushed forwards, her green eyes blazing with worry. "Clint?" she whispered urgently.

Clint recoiled as Natasha reached for the brunette's face. Natasha knit her eyebrows in confusion. "Clint—?"

She pushed herself off the floor, standing unsteadily and shooting a glare at the doctor. Dr. Greene was still extremely pale. "Clint," she began, but the girl cut her off.

"Don't," she said. "Just don't. Go back to wherever you came from. If I never see you again, it'll be too soon. I don't want anything from you anymore. I can get my answers from somewhere else." And the girl scooped her bow off the ground and was gone, retreating into the sanctuary of the gym.

She dumped the bow and quiver on the floor and made for 404 A, grabbing a throwing knife from the weapon rack on her way out. The darkness enveloped her, smothering her senses, but she didn't care. She knew where the air duct was.

Clint pried the grate from the vent and disappeared into the tiny crawlspace, not bothering to cover her tracks. The ventilation system was a maze and everyone knew it. Besides, if anyone followed, Clint had a knife, and if she could strangle someone with a bunch of cotton balls, she had no doubt that she'd be fine.

1:17 am (9 hours later), HYDRA HQ, Location Unknown  
><strong>The Real Clint Barton's POV<strong>

Clint woke up slowly. It felt like his brain had been pulverized to mush. His ears were ringing, his skin stung, and he was freezing cold. His eyes fluttered open, and he wondered how long he'd been out. When he'd finally lost consciousness, the torturer had been pouring salt into cuts on his chest. He let his head loll forwards and felt bile rise in his throat. He looked like shit.

He was tied down on a table of some sort, bound at the ankles and wrists. The skin on his midsection was all an angry red, and a bunch of neat cuts were oozing blood, covered in a thick crust of red-stained clumps of salt. Clint swallowed and closed his eyes. _So thirsty_… He gave a racking cough. It sounded like a choking cat. His entire body trembled with every hacking cough, and it was at least a minute before he was able to breathe again.

_Natasha… was she okay? Did they get her? Is she somewhere nearby, going through what I'm going through?_ Clint couldn't think clearly. He was slipping into delirium, struggling to focus. He couldn't think, he was dying, suffocating on the air he was breathing, he could taste the stench of his own blood on the air, and Natasha was in danger, Tasha, Nat…

_My name is Clint Barton. I'm a level 6 SHIELD agent. I'm an Avenger. I fought in the Battle of Manhattan. I had a brother, Barney. We were orphans in Iowa. Barney is dead now. I'm friends with Captain America, Tony Stark, Thor, the Black Widow and Bruce Banner (A.K.A. the Hulk). I was enslaved by Loki for a few days when we lost the Tesseract, then Nat hit me over the head and I was okay. I'm not okay anymore. I'm dying. Am I going to be okay? Oh, God, what if I never see Natasha again? She'll kill me for not saying goodbye…_

Clint's mini-biography ground to a halt as he pictured that. He had calmed down enough to realize that it was implausible for him to die and then to be killed by Natasha afterwards for not saying goodbye, and he gave a snort of laughter. _I'm an idiot_, he thought. His thoughts were interrupted by a grinding sound that was followed by a soft thud. He groggily raised his head, wincing as the lights were turned on.

There was a girl there who looked around fourteen years old, standing next to the vent and studying him with wide grey eyes. Her light brown hair was close cropped and ruffled. She was lean and incredibly muscular, dressed in a tight black uniform. Her eyes met his and she swallowed, as if she was about to do something stupidly risky and was expecting to get caught.

"I don't have much time to talk," she said, her voice soft and clear. For a moment, she stood there, a stunned look on her face, before swallowing again nervously and continuing, "Please, no one tells me the truth. I don't know where I am, or who I… who I _was_ before coming here. They told me that I was crushed under a ton of drywall, and that I had a serious concussion and lost all my memory. I've been here almost ten months, and I still don't know anything. There are just bits and pieces that don't feel right, like they aren't _my_ memories. I know it sounds absolutely _crazy_, and I know that you probably don't give a damn, but I am being dead serious.

"They said you were a SHIELD agent. I know absolutely nothing about SHIELD, but my guess is that you're some sort of intelligence agency that works for the United States Government. If you have answers for me, I might have a way out for you. Please."

Clint said nothing. He didn't have anything to say. She was right: there was no reason for him to care. And he didn't. This was probably just his abductors trying to trick him.

Desperation shone in her stormy eyes, and she took a step forwards. "Please… just…" She struggled for words. "Natasha Romanoff," she blurted. His blood froze. "Steve Rogers. Bruce Banner. Thor Odinson. Tony Stark. Do those names mean anything to you?" She shifted from foot to foot anxiously. "Anything at all?"

Clint remained silent. "I…" she trailed off, looking down at her black combat boots. "Never mind. I'm being stupid. Of course you wouldn't know those names. I'm so _stupid_." She clenched her fists and screwed her eyes shut, giving a growl. "They're just random people who were… I don't even know. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm sorry for bothering you." She turned back towards the vent, Clint eyeing her with confusion. _What was _that_?_ Clint thought. _How could I _not_ know those names? Practically everyone in the world knows those names._

She paused for a moment, her hands reaching for the grate. "Clint Barton. Do you know the name Clint Barton?" Her grey eyes met his again, a look that was more scared than anxious this time.

Clint couldn't help it. He laughed, a sound so horrible that it hurt both his throat and his ears and then turned into a cough. The girl stared. "What is this, some sort of sick joke?" Clint asked breathlessly when the coughing had subsided.

The girl's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, actual unfeigned confusion. "What?"

He studied her carefully. "You really don't know?" he asked finally, his voice hoarse and low. She shook her head slowly. "Clint Barton. _My_ name is Clint Barton."

She stiffened visibly. "What? But…" she trailed off, and he encouraged her silently to continue. "They told me the first day that _my_ name is Clint Barton."

* * *

><p>"Hold on," Clint said. "So, the rest of them actually… <em>believe<em> you're a guy?"

She nodded. "Seems like it. Well, the team does. I'm not sure about the doctor. I really don't know. It's almost like the team isn't seeing me correctly, like they have blind faith in HYDRA and are just following orders." She furrowed her eyebrows, lost in thought. "It's like they're being controlled by the power of suggestion."

They'd been talking for almost an hour. The girl wasn't bad company, actually. Better than the torturers, at least. She poured her heart out to him, telling Clint everything she knew about herself – _literally_ everything, since all she could remember was the past ten months of her life. She explained how she'd get false memories and emotions being around certain team members. How she was given mystery medicine each morning. How her voice was usually so much deeper than it was then.

She told him that they were somewhere in North America, still, at a HYDRA facility, and how she had no idea what HYDRA was. In return, he answered her questions – all the ones he could, at least.

"What was HYDRA, anyway?" she asked suddenly, coming out of her trance.

"HYDRA was a branch of Nazi scientists. They basically came up with BS reasons why they had to take over the world and schemed their rise to power. They were stopped during WWII, but they've made a comeback, big time. SHIELD is the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. We're…" Clint struggled to find the right words. "Well, let's put it this way: HYDRA wants to control the world. We want to protect it."

The girl was quiet for a moment. "I like that," she mused softly. "The acronym goes with what each side stands for. A shield protects; a hydra is a monster."

Clint gave a weak grin, the first one in days. "Clever," he complemented. She smiled and blushed. "You know, you remind me of a friend of mine. Natasha. _My_ Natasha, at least. Yours is _way_ different."

The girl nodded slowly. "Not all handsy?"

"Nope," Clint sighed.

"Lucky," the girl muttered. "I feel like every time she's near me she's either feeling me up or mentally undressing me."

Clint laughed. "Our relationship is a lot more complicated than yours."

"Ooh, I'm sorry. That must suck."

"At times. You get used to it after a while." Clint sighed wistfully. "Are you sure she isn't here?"

"Positive. You're the only one on this floor besides us, and if your Black Widow is as good as you say she is, then she'd be here, too." Clint felt a wave of relief wash over him, but it didn't last very long. He was still in trouble.

"You said you could get me out," Clint said quietly. Their eyes met, caution in both gazes.

She nodded slowly. "I did."

"Can you?"

There was a moment's pause. "Not now. But I can and I will. You aren't the only prisoner here, you know. If we're busting you out, I'm coming, too. Just… how long will you be able to hold on?"

"At the rate they're slicing me up?" Clint said. He thought for a moment. "At best, maybe three months. At worst… well, only a few weeks."

The girl bit her lower lip, thinking. "I'll see what I can do," she murmured, as if half talking to herself. "Just focus on not going crazy or dying."

"Not dying is good," Clint agreed. "I'll do that. Just be careful not to get caught. We'll both get killed."

She nodded again distractedly. "I won't," she said softly. "I promise."


	4. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Hey! Alright, I know a lot of you are probably confused. Up until this point, I haven't really explained anything. So, Happy Early Birthday! What you're about to read makes a **_**littl****e**_** bit ****more sense than everything else so far. Just bear with me, and I **_**might _give Clint (one of the Clints, at least) a happy ending._**

**_ALSO: Reviews are always appreciated. Give me some constructive criticism, people!_**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>  
>The Triskelion, Washington D.C.<br>**The Real Natasha Romanoff's POV**

She'd been pacing for about four hours when Director Fury finally got annoyed and told her to sit down before she wore a groove in the floor. Natasha didn't like it, but she sat. "We're working on it, Romanoff," the Director had said in a strained voice. "As soon as we find something, I'll tell you, and then you can go kill it, but pacing around isn't making this _any_ less stressful for me."

So Natasha grudgingly sat down. Five minutes later, however, she couldn't take the unbearable sound of typing and hushed murmurs anymore. She stood and began to pace.

Finally the Director had had enough. "OUT, Romanoff!" he snapped. "Coulson, I don't care what you do, just keep her in D.C. and out of trouble."

Phil sighed, but he stood and led Natasha out of the room, the heavy doors closing behind them almost silently. "Natasha, they _are_ trying," Phil attempted weakly.

"They aren't getting anywhere," Natasha replied coldly, stepping into the elevator and gazing out the glass walls at the surrounding city. She vaguely heard Phil say a destination, but she was too anxious to listen. The elevator doors closed with a soft swoosh, and they began sinking.

Agent Coulson stood at her shoulder quietly, staring out at the world. "It almost seems unfair," he said almost randomly. "Everyone else has such normal lives. Like those people down there," he pointed towards what looked like a park, towards a group of people wearing brightly colored clothing. "They don't have to worry about anything like the world ending, or terrorism threats, or drugs and arms dealers. They have the privilege of living _normal_ lives. Sure, they have worries. But their worries are nothing compared to ours."

Natasha stole a glance at him, studying the agent's face. His eyes were hardened with something like envy. His skin was tight around his features, as if he was struggling to keep a scowl from his face. His shoulders were tensed, as if at any second he would lash out and break something. She was surprised, and a little intimidated. Phil Coulson, normally so very calm and cool and collected, was the last person she would expect to be so… fiery.

"I guess someone has to do this," he continued. "Keep our eyes open while everyone else in the country lives on happily. Completely unaware of us. What we sacrifice for them."

Her eyes widened. Natasha had never heard Phil so… bitter. Empty. It was a side of him she'd never seen before – one she doubted very many people had had the privilege of seeing.

"But we'll find him," Phil said after a long pause. "We always find him."

Natasha said nothing. She didn't have to. What they both were refusing to say aloud is that 'always' has to come to an end sometime or another. And Natasha thought for a fleeting moment that maybe if she believed they would find him, they actually would.

They ended up going to a shopping mall. She wasn't sure what shopping mall it was. She really didn't care. To her, it was just a place to worry, and move, and think. As long as she was moving, she was going to be okay. She wasn't sure why, but something about moving… it just felt right. Like if she ran fast enough she could outrun her demons.

Phil kept stride with her the whole way. Natasha absentmindedly pictured the two of them as a dog and its handler: her as a greyhound, eager to move, and Phil as the one holding the leash, there to keep her from taking off and running away completely. In some aspects he was a burden. In others, he was the only thing acting as an anchor, holding her down and keeping her from drifting away.

They passed so many civilians, pedestrians. The privileged ones. At some points, Natasha wondered if the image had switched, with Phil as the greyhound and her the handler. Each time they passed a group of laughing children, carefree young couples, or families, Phil would tense up. She knew what he was thinking. Why he was so jealous. They had something he might never get: a stable relationship. A happy family. The choice to have children. Most Agents of SHIELD could never have that. The few that did… well, Natasha had seen them. Most were never happy.

After about the ninth time they passed a family, Phil sped up, walking into a café. "I need something to drink," he muttered. Natasha followed.

She got a cup of water and he got a mug of coffee. They sat next to the window in a sort of tense silence, neither saying a word until Natasha finally couldn't take it anymore. "How long have you wanted a family?" she asked softly.

Phil stiffened, then relaxed. "A while now. I would ask how you were able to pick up on that, but you're the Black Widow, so there's nothing to explain."

"What intrigues you about having children?" Natasha pressed on.

"They're kids, Natasha. Every day of my life, I have to watch these people that I don't even know being happy, raising a family, living life without a care in the world. The appeal of having children is just the idea of raising a person from the time they're helpless up until they can stand on their own two feet and fend for themselves, caring for them and guiding them towards their dreams and goals. Just… The way children are, making their parents smile, and laugh, and everything else they can do without even trying… That is love at its finest, Natasha, and knowing that I'll probably never get that hurts."

"Love is for children," she said automatically, so used to saying those words to Clint that it was now an instinct.

Phil looked over at her, giving her a 'no duh' look. "Yes. That's my point exactly."

* * *

><p>Two days later, HYDRA HQ, Location Unknown<br>**The Real Clint Barton's POV**

Clint sighed. It was quiet and dark and peaceful. A sweet relief after what he'd been through. The torturer came in three times a day, always waking up the SHIELD agent with a bucket of either ice cold or searing hot water to the face. Now, Clint could relax. For now, the pain was over, and he had about five hours to sleep and prepare himself for the next round of agony.

He was drifting off slowly, his breathing deep and even, when he heard the brush of fabric against metal. _Clint II_, he thought, lifting his head to look for his mini-me. And there she was, sliding out of the vent. "Hey," she greeted, glancing over at him. He nodded, raising an eyebrow as she reached back past the grate and pulled a white plastic trash bag from the vent.

Clint's eyes followed the bag as she dragged it closer, watching her drop it on the floor and dump the contents on the tiles, just outside the ring of filth that had accumulated around the table where Clint was bound. A Ziploc bag filled with cotton balls. Two plastic bottles of clear liquid. And food. A deformed sandwich that had been smashed in its Ziploc container. A bruised apple. A box of raisins. Clint decided to ignore the raisins.

"It isn't much," Clint II said, her voice regretful, "but I brought necessities."

"Hey, this is way better than nothing," Clint replied, trying not to drool. _Food_. She'd brought actual, real _food_. And some raisins.

She scooped one of the bottles from the floor and unscrewed the cap, sniffing the contents carefully before putting the cap back on and setting it back on the table. She grabbed the other one and untwisted the lid, holding it up to Clint's lips for him to drink. He gave a sigh of relief as the water passed through his chapped lips, soothing his intense thirst.

Too soon, she pulled it away, and Clint realized that he hadn't taken a breath in almost a minute. Half the water had been drained. He took a few deep breaths, studying the bruise that took up the entire left half of her face. "That's looking better," he commented. It was still visible, an angry black and yellow, but it did seem to be shrinking.

Clint II sighed. "I don't know what happened," she said softly. They'd discussed the incident in the hall, of course. He'd been able to hear it through the walls, and he'd wondered what had happened. She'd picked a fight with Captain America Jr., she said, and had gotten a fist to the face. "It's like… The way he was able to calm me down was just so… weird. It was like I'd been programmed to do calm down, just like the way I'm hardwired to say certain things. I just don't know how they did it."

He shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. I'm a field agent, not a scientist."

As they fell into the silence that followed, she went about caring for him, holding the apple up for him so he could eat and cleaning up the cuts with the cotton balls and isopropyl alcohol (which was why she hadn't let him drink from the other bottle). For a while, they remained in a comfortable silence. Then they ran out of sandwich.

"So…" Clint II started, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "You know HYDRA better than I do… If SHIELD has a team of Avengers, like you said, why would HYDRA try to replicate those same people with a bunch of teenagers?"

Clint shook his head. "I don't know. It's bothering me, though. HYDRA's masterminds are cold. Calculating. Everything they do has some reason behind it. They've always got a larger scheme behind the obvious ones. It's like an actual hydra. Cut off one head, and two more grow back in its place."

The girl digested that silently, her eyes studying a crack in the flooring. Deep in thought, as if she thought that thinking hard enough would solve everything. It wouldn't, Clint knew, but he let her sit quietly in her own little world. She was intelligent. Even if they didn't figure everything out, she would think of something else.

Finally she spoke. "I… I should be getting back. Natasha II is going to be tearing the room apart looking for me, or crawling through the vents. I never know with her. Sometimes I wonder how much of that possessiveness is really her or… or whatever they've drilled into her head."

Clint shrugged, wincing as the cuts on his midsection throbbed from the movement. "I don't know," he said softly. She met his eyes. "All that I know is that if we have a chance of saving them, we have to get out first. Alright?"

Clint II hesitated. "Alright," she agreed uncertainly, as if she was trying to convince herself.

"Good. Now scram. I need some sleep."

In under a minute, she and the trash bag had disappeared, the grate replaced over the vent. Clint sighed and closed his eyes, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen that he couldn't control. Something dangerous. It had to do with Clint II.

Did he trust her? Well… the way she described everything on that first encounter, the way she was so open, so trusting… She was desperate for someone to talk to. And the way those storm-grey eyes seemed to open up to him, show him her deepest and darkest emotions and fears… No one could fake that. Not even the original Natasha Romanoff.

* * *

><p><strong>Clint II's POV<strong>

Grey eyes scanned the scene through the grate. Natasha stomping around throwing things. Steve struggling (and failing) to calm her down. Tony sitting up on his top bunk, along with a nervous looking Bruce and an apprehensive Thor.

Natasha hurled a glass across the room, apparently unsatisfied when it shattered against the wall. She threw another that barely missed Bruce's head, and he gave a wail and disappeared into Tony's sheets. "Watch it, Romanoff! You're going to kill someone!" Tony yelled. Thor gently patted Bruce on the back as the young scientist curled into a ball and started trembling.

Natasha threw another glass. Tony had to swat it away before her expertly thrown projectile hit him in the face. "Natasha, listen to me," Steve ordered, his voice taking on a more desperate urgency. Almost immediately, Clint II had the urge to follow orders. A false feeling, of course. But it was strong, much stronger than her other instincts.

Natasha had been hardwired differently, she realized. The redhead was still ignoring the false super soldier, throwing whatever she got her hands on. A chair dented the drywall across the room, making a loud crunch.

"NATASHA!" It was the first time Clint II had ever heard Steve raise his voice. Bruce howled into Tony's pillow, terrified. Clint II vaguely remembered something about him not handling stress well… The real Bruce Banner, as Clint had told her, handled anger or grief by turning into the Hulk. The miniature version, of course, couldn't turn into a giant green monster. HYDRA didn't have the capabilities or the stupidity to mutate him in that way. However, they'd simplified these "anger issues" and given the teenager stress problems.

Natasha whirled to face him, a steak knife in her hand, and gave him a poisonous green death glare that made Clint II want to retreat deeper into the air vent. Captain America Jr., however, was unfazed. "Natasha, put the knife down. Just talk to me, okay? You don't need to break things, you're just making things worse."

The redhead stood, frozen. Then, the knife slipped from her grasp, falling and embedding itself in the carpet. She sighed, beginning to pace again, but this time she was at least unarmed. "He's late. He's always late. He didn't used to just disappear. I mean, sure, he had his bad days, but he's never been so moody all the time. Honestly, sometimes I have trouble believing that he's the same person."

Steve nodded slowly. "Have you and Clint discussed any of this?"

Nat scoffed. "No. Of course not. He barely shows up anymore, always off on his own. I can barely get him to talk to me."

"Do you want to confront him about this together?" Steve suggested.

Tasha hesitated for a moment. Even at a distance, Clint II could see the desperate gleam in the depths of those emerald eyes, clinging to Steve's idea like it was her last shred of hope. "Yes," she said after a moment's pause. "He… He might listen if we're all talking to him."

Steve smiled. "See? No need for the tantrum."

She scowled at him. "Shut up, soldier." Clint II slithered away, suddenly uninterested in going to sleep. She'd ditched the trash bag in 405 A's trash can, and she had another destination in mind. One that would quite possibly land her in a HYDRA prison cell.

The crawl took long enough. She'd passed the room a couple of times on her way to and from the infirmary on the second floor for the rubbing alcohol. It wasn't hard to find. It took up about a quarter of the entire level. The main computer system had been right under her feet the whole time. She'd just been too dumb to think of looking for it.

It was dark, most of the light coming from the bright computer screens that flickered along the walls and on the tables. It was meant for at least fifty people to work at once. Now, however, past midnight, there were only five late-night workers besides herself. The agents were all too busy in their own work to notice her. She sat in an isolated, deserted corner, and wiggled the mouse around at one of the computers. Slowly, the screen lit up, revealing a red HYDRA emblem screensaver with a black background. Typical.

She nervously sat, not sure she would be able to work a computer. It seemed that HYDRA had selectively wiped her memory: she could remember most of her world history. She understood some scientific concepts, and she was pretty sure she knew how to use math. She could read and write. She knew what certain objects were, and how to use them, like hair brushes and light switches. But using a computer? Clint II wasn't sure if she would be able to.

For a moment, she sat, blankly staring at the HYDRA logo on her desktop. Then, she found her hands working by themselves, clicking the icon in the lower left-hand corner of the screen, finding a tab labeled "CURRENT PROJECTS" and clicking on it. It loaded quickly, hundreds of files at her fingertips. She stared at the names of the files, wondering which one would give her information on her project – the one involving the false Avengers.

For what seemed like an eternity, she scanned the folder names. Nothing even remotely relevant appeared, and after a while, Clint II got restless. Slowly, her eyelids began to droop. And then she saw it: "PROJECT NEMESIS." She clicked on it, her heart beating faster, all her tiredness gone.

There was only one file, labeled "PROJECT PROCEDURES." She double clicked it, realizing that this file probably explained the whole purpose of the project. Her grey eyes widened as she read:

"_The Nemesis_ _Project _(_originally named the Supplanter Project) was created by Doctor Hannah M. Greene, at first, in an attempt to create the perfect undercover spy. The original five subjects, HYDRA volunteers ages 21, 32, and 46, were submitted to various testing and operations. The objective of these experiments were to not only make them think like, move like, and look like their original (as their targets were called), but to _be_ the original._

"_Many attempts to replicate DNA failed, though one technique, White-Washing, worked the most efficiently. However, due to the extremity of these testing, the two older subjects deceased during the first stages of testing, which included extreme physical exercise during the day and White-Washing while the subjects slept. The White-Wash compound included several chemicals used in chemo-therapy, though altered to attack and weaken all of the subject's cells instead of being so selectively toxic._

"_The rest of the mixture the subject was given was designed to attack the weakened cells and cause them to mutate, replicating the original's DNA. Though the best results are found in subjects who are submitted to testing for periods longer than two years, the shortest time recorded was six months and four days. The longest, twenty-six months and eleven days, resulted in an 80% replication of the original's DNA, the closest to perfect achieved._

"_Other procedures include wiping the subjects' memories using a technique created by Dr. Hannah M. Greene and replacing them with false memories. Further testing showed that these "refined" memories are not as reliable as first believed to be, and the only way to make sure they are permanent is to implant them several times at the same time as the subject's White-Wash until the memories take hold._

"_After testing is completed, it is necessary to give certain non-volunteer subjects a daily dose of Compound 2A. This compound, also developed by Dr. Hannah M. Greene, blurs the subject's thoughts. Under the influence of Compound 2A, they process what they see differently, allowing outside voices to have an advantage in controlling them. Dr. Greene refers to this as the "Power of Suggestion." Using this, the subjects could be shown an apple, and told it was an orange. Instead of seeing an apple, they would see what they were told it was: an orange. The dosage should be monitored carefully, as further studies have shown that the more unbelievable the claim, the more likely it is that the subject will not accept an outside input._"

This explained a lot of things. Clint II had been right about the others not seeing her clearly. They had been told that she was crushed under over a ton of drywall, resulting in memory loss and major facial reconstruction. So when someone completely different than their Clint showed up, claiming to be Clint, they'd believed it. _They must be doped up with a _lot_ of Compound 2A_, she thought. The way they were programmed to think and respond in certain ways, even with certain words, had to do with the way they'd been given false memories, she realized, and those hazy, false memories, as she'd thought, weren't hers. They weren't even real. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She scrolled to the next page, and she found herself looking at the picture of a man in his early twenties. The name next to the picture said _Allman, Victor S. 21._ Below that, it said, _Testing Complete 53%_. It went on with more information on him, but that meant nothing to her. The next two pages, _Hough, Uriah L. 32._ and _Richardson, Sean T. 46._, were both labeled _Deceased During Testing_. Then she found Steve.

_Riley, William T. 15. Testing Complete 74%._

The boy in the picture looked almost nothing like the person he was now. His facial features were mostly the same, but he was much paler, his eyes a lovely forest green, and his now-blonde hair was darker, a light brown like Clint II's. He looked a lot less confident in the picture, a lot less… friendly. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Other information on his fact sheet stood out to her. He'd been an only child. He had had an alcoholic, single mother. He'd been submitted to testing three years earlier, a month after the "Battle of Manhattan," whatever that was. She decided she would have to ask Clint about it.

The next page was Natasha. _Harris, Fiona L. 14. Testing Complete, 69%._ The picture had straight, light red hair, not as fiery as it was now, and her eyes were brown. Freckles spotted her now-clear skin. She had been a gymnast. She'd had a younger brother, Adam. Submitted to testing three years earlier, a month after the Battle of Manhattan.

Thor came up next. _West, Thomas J. 16. Testing Complete 73%._ His hair had been close-cropped, already blonde. His eyes were a much lighter, watery blue. Thomas had been a wrestler, one of the best in his school district, and had wanted to be a body builder. He had an older sister and two younger sisters, Maya, Annabelle and Claire. _Submitted to testing a month after the Battle of Manhattan_.

Tony was _Clark, Ian P. 15. Testing Complete 71%._ He looked virtually the same, although his brown eyes were darker as well as his skin. He'd had seven siblings, all younger. He loved robotics, winning almost every science fair he'd ever entered, and he planned to be an inventor or an engineer when he grew up. Testing began _after the Battle of Manhattan_.

Bruce: _Vincent, Liam K. 14. Testing Complete 76%_. He was living with his aunt, uncle and four cousins. He had been the top of his science class, adoring anything that had to do with chemistry or biology or physics. _Battle of Manhattan_.

And then she found Clint Barton. The first copy, at least. _Young, Julian B. 15. Testing Complete 80%._ He looked a lot like their original, with a similar bone structure. For a moment, she could almost picture the two as father and son. Then those thoughts were driven out of her mind when she read on. _First official assignment took place in unstable building. Gas leak caused explosion. Crushed by falling debris._ It went on and on, listing all of his wounds and injuries. She'd never known you could break so many bones. _Has been comatose for seven months. Replacement assigned._ Her heart pounded. She began to scroll down to the last page, trembling from the adrenaline rushing through her system.

Her eyes met the matching ones on the screen, traveling as if in slow motion over to the right of the picture. _Taylor, Astrid N. 14. Testing Incomplete 19%_.

_Astrid. My name is Astrid_. Her mind seemed to implode on itself, and then explode. It was as if she'd just jumped into a swimming pool, and was drowning in her own memories that were suddenly flooding back into her mind. The first time she'd won a medal in gymnastics. The day her mother died. The first time her father hit her. The time her twin sister, Kira, had called her a bitch because she'd accidentally spilled coffee on Kira's sheet music.

She felt like she was being electrocuted. She started to scroll down, but suddenly, something rock-hard and fast collided with the bruised side of her face. Astrid gave a scream, but her cry of pain was cut off quickly as she was shoved to the floor and the wind was knocked out of her. She blinked back unshed tears and struggled for oxygen, desperate to escape her attackers.

Through clouded vision, she saw three armed HYDRA guards and a woman in a pristine white lab coat standing over her. "Well," Dr. Greene said, her voice cold. "It appears that you've discovered my pride and joy. Ah, Nemesis. Truly, my greatest masterpiece. Unfortunately for you, Clint—"

"Astrid," the girl gasped, struggling to get up off of the carpet. "My name is Astrid Nicole Taylor."

The scientist sneered. "_Astrid_," she mimicked in a bad imitation of the teen's voice. "Do you not understand how these things work?" She got down on one knee, seizing Astrid by the throat. Her forefinger and her thumb dug into the sides of Astrid's neck just below her jaw, a painful pressure point. "As soon as we caught you, you were ours. Our little prisoner. Our lab rat," the scientist spat. "When the first fell into a coma, we thought we' lost the whole project.

"The board was getting antsy, you see. They told us that unless our little comatose patient got better or we found a suitable replacement, we would be shut down. The board doesn't like things to be left half done. Even if they had five of the six, that meant nothing without Clint Barton. They wanted the whole set. After all, the project's purpose was to eliminate HYDRA's biggest threat. With the Avengers on the loose, SHIELD has the upper hand. You and your teammates are going to level the playing field for us." She paused, smirking. "After all, who better to fight the Avengers than themselves?"

Astrid gasped for breath as the scientist released her, pulling away. "Tie her up. Sedate her. Figure out how she escaped," the scientist ordered coldly. "I want her in the boardroom in fifteen minutes, no later." Dr. Greene thought for a moment. "And bring the original. I want to show off our new chew toy to the board members."

Astrid screamed again, a horrible, ear-splitting wail.

And on the floor above her, Clint Barton, agent of SHIELD, and a boy once named William Riley both jerked awake and said, "Clint."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**  
>HYDRA HQ, Location Unknown<br>**Astrid's POV**

Her eyes slowly opened, wincing at a harsh white light. She drew in a breath and coughed, her throat sore. She could make out the silhouettes of a few chairs around an oval-shaped table. There light came from huge panels, each bearing the HYDRA emblem. Astrid made an undignified squeak and tried to sit up, but she found herself restrained to a chair, unable to even shift positions.

"She's awake," a deep voice rumbled from next to her. Astrid's head whipped towards the source, finding herself staring at a guard. He wore a standard black uniform, his face covered, but she could make out a dark tattoo on his exposed wrist. A snake of some kind. Astrid _hated_ snakes.

"Good." Dr. Greene's voice floated through the darkness. "You," she said, as if speaking to someone else, "start the conference."

Astrid struggled against her bindings – some sort of thick rope, from the feel of it – and felt a hand connect with her bruised cheek. Her eyes watered and she screamed, but she sound was muffled, and she realized that her captors had duct-taped her mouth shut.

"Quiet, you," the guard growled. "Or I'll hit you harder."

Astrid fell silent. Her hands found the knots around her wrists and began to work on their own, instinctually taking over.

One by one, the panels on the walls flickered and changed until Astrid found herself looking at four faces, each darkened as if to protect their owners' identities. "Dr. Hannah Green," a man's voice came, full of distaste. The figure on the far right panel shifted. "Whatever have you called us to attention for? That _ridiculous_ doppelganger scheme of yours?"

"Sir, if I may—" Dr. Greene started, her voice uneasy, but a woman's voice with a thick German accent interrupted her.

"Doctor, we are not fools," the woman spat, the figure on the center-left panel leaning closer towards the screen. "We know about your 'misfortune.' My sincere apologies, by the way. I hear the young man was a favorite of yours."

"The first copy was the greatest so far. With a little more time, he might have been a perfect replica," Dr. Greene said quickly. "He's still alive—"

"HA!" the woman laughed coldly. "Barely. Face the music, Doctor. Your little _pet_ has had it."

Dr. Greene sounded impatient when she replied. "Ma'am, if I may, his brainwaves are getting stronger by the day. In a few months, perhaps—"

"'A few months?'" mocked the first man. "Please, Hannah. Don't waste our time and resources. If you don't have results in a few days, your time is up, and Project Nemesis is done." The scientist was about to respond when he continued, "And now we get to the most interesting part. The – what did you call it? – Your so-called 'replacement,' I believe?"

"Sir—"

A new voice spoke, the one on the far left. "Doctor," came the voice of a Russian man, "we have our sources. We know of all your failures. There is no point hiding the truth from us."

"Sir," Dr. Greene's voice was strangled, and her silhouette was hunched with tension, "it wasn't my fault. The wrong people were handling the DNA—"

"And because of that, you no longer have the DNA to finish the job," the woman finished. "Yes, we know. You see, Doctor, we are tired of your pointless project. Even with the original's DNA, this replacement of yours would never come anywhere close to perfect. She's a girl, for goodness sake! No amount of White-Wash could ever change her gender. If you're going to make a replacement, don't take shortcuts."

"I didn't—"

The first man roared with laughter. "You trained the first six from scratch. This one, however… Well, Doctor, you got a little bit lazy, did you not? You taught her only to kill. And as for the memories—"

"Please!" the Doctor begged, "I was trying to get results—"

"Silence!" The fourth had finally spoke, a deep voice with an unrecognizable accent. Even the other three said nothing. The mid-right figure appeared to stand up from behind a shadowy desk. "Greene, don't pretend that it isn't your fault. _You_ chose the replacement. _You_ chose to take shortcuts that should not have been taken. And you are the reason this project has failed us."

"Sir," squeaked Dr. Greene, "please, hear me out. I may not be able to perfect her, but I've gotten new DNA. _Fresh_ DNA. All I could want." She snapped, and a set of doors opened, blinding light searing Astrid's retinas for one painful moment before a struggling human form was hauled in and the brief light was blocked out once again.

The board members all seemed to gasp. "See?" Dr. Greene said, her voice slightly panicked. "Here he is. The original, right at my fingertips." Clint was forced to his knees in front of her, and Dr. Greene took a handful of his disheveled hair. She shook his head a bit, as if brandishing a sword at the board rather than a half-dead SHIELD agent. "I can complete the White-Wash," she gasped.

_Good Lord,_ Astrid thought with a pang of realization. _She's insane. Brilliant and completely, one-hundred percent insane._

Clint spat a string of profanities at her. "Oh, hush," Dr. Greene chided lightly, the tone of her voice one that people use to scold naughty children.

"How—" began the board woman, but Dr. Greene shook her head, chuckling.

"I'm no fool, ma'am. Believe me, I may have aged, but I have by no means lost my touch."

Clint gave a harsh, wild laugh. "Lady, to lose something, you have to actually _have_ it in the first place," he groaned, gazing up at her with a dry amusement.

She responded by slapping him in the face, hard. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you," she warned softly. "That would be very bad indeed."

Clint said nothing, but Astrid could almost taste the tension in the air. "This replacement," the fourth board member said, his voice neutral. "Would you mind showing us your latest pet, Doctor?"

"Not at all," Dr. Greene said, all former traces of desperation replaced with an eerie calm. Astrid swallowed a mouthful of saliva and her fingers fumbled over the ropes. She had almost freed her arms. Strong hands gripped the back of her chair and picked her up easily, carrying her forwards and setting her down on Dr. Greene's other side. The scientist set her free hand on Astrid's head and grinned at the four board members, insanity in her brown eyes. "Say hello, Clint!" she cackled, ripping away the duct tape.

Astrid remained silent. Dr. Greene fidgeted for a moment before slapping Astrid upside the head. "Talk!" she ordered.

_I've been your lab rat. I've been your experiment. I've been your 'replacement,' your 'pet,' and your Clint Barton,_ Astrid thought. _And I'm done._ She bit her tongue, hard, and kept her mouth shut. Her fingers tugged at the frustratingly loose bindings. _Just a little more time!_

"TALK!" Dr. Greene screamed, smacking her right on the bruise. Astrid's eyes watered, but she forced herself to remain absolutely silent. She would _not_ let this monster of a woman have the satisfaction of knowing she could win. "NOW!" The four figures were all studying the scene with a mild interest, as if they were used to Dr. Greene's violent behavior. Astrid's fingers prized apart the final knot, and the rope fell away.

Clint met her eyes, and they came to a silent agreement. Clint rolled away, jerking out of the scientist's grasp and pulling her off balance. Astrid stood and kicked the woman squarely in the chest, sending her sprawling on the carpet, and Clint kicked her in the head.

In under a minute, Astrid had taken out the guards as well. Applause erupted from the speakers. "Excellent!" crowed the German. "The duplicate isn't a lost cause after all! Perhaps Hannah has truly outdone herself this time."

"Perhaps," agreed the Russian. "Though if we keep her much longer, she may be more trouble than she's worth." Astrid untied Clint's ankles and wrists, helping him up and anxiously assessing the damage.

Clint was leaning on her heavily, his legs trembling from almost a week of being unused. A soft alarm was blaring, muffled by the doors, but Astrid was sure that everyone in the building knew what was happening. Behind the heavy, darkened doors, she knew that there were dozens more guards waiting. And, her stomach plummeting, she knew she'd never be able to make it out alive.

The door opened with a soft squeal, and Astrid winced from the bright light and the blow to the face she was expecting. Even if the sedatives were wearing off, she was too slow to take on anyone without knowing where they were in advance.

"Clint?"

Astrid looked up, startled, and found herself gazing at Steve – William. He was eyeing her with concern, his HYDRA shield glaring up at her. Behind him, a squad of guards lay unmoving next to his feet. "Steve," she said, struggling forwards. Clint almost collapsed, but William rushed forwards and caught him at the last second.

"What happened? What's going on?" William demanded. "Who is this?"

Astrid met his eyes, and she felt bile rising in her throat. He'd never believe her if she told him the truth. But she had to try. "Steve, you need to listen to me. There isn't time to explain, and I need you to help me. I know you have no reason to trust me right now. I know that I'm not the person you remember. But…" she struggled for words. "Please. I need to get him out of here." She gestured to Clint with her head. "He… He isn't the enemy. HYDRA is."

William didn't answer. He studied her, his facial features unreadable. The sound of running, rubber soled boots on the tiles made Astrid's heart race quicken. She looked down the hall and saw them, a squad of heavily armed agents rushing forwards. Astrid shoved Clint behind her, knowing that if it was the last thing she did, she would get him out or die trying to keep her final promise. Her muscles tensed as she prepared to fight for her life. But she didn't have to.

William sprang forwards, and in one swift motion, he'd taken out three of the twelve guards with his shield. The others were caught off guard by his attack, and as they stumbled over each other to get away, William charged. They were all lying unconscious or dead in seconds. He turned to meet Astrid's eyes. "I want answers," he growled, raising his shield. "You lie to me, and you're both dead."

"My name is Astrid Nicole Taylor. I'm fourteen years old. I was born and raised in the Middle of Nowhere, Kansas. I have a twin sister named Kira Hope Taylor. My father's name is Garth Taylor. My mother is dead." She took a breath before plunging on.

"Your name is William Riley. You're fifteen years old, raised in Tampa Bay, Florida. Your mother's name is Marie Riley. She raised you by herself. She's an alcoholic. You disappeared from the face of the Earth almost three years ago. You were brought here, your memory was wiped, and you were used in an experiment called Project Nemesis. It was an attempt to recreate some of the most powerful people in the world, a group of six called the Avengers. You were chosen to be the doppelganger for their leader, Steve Rogers—"

She continued on, telling him everything about the project, and his original. Astrid didn't realize that she was ranting until she took the first breath she'd taken in minutes. She blinked black spots from her eyes and focused on William. He was still looking at her with a blank expression, but his eyes had glazed over, and his arms were limp at his sides. Slowly, he shook his head.

"What?" she asked.

His eyes met hers sluggishly, and struggled to focus. "I… Will," he said softly. "Everyone calls me Will, not William."

"Nice to meet you, Will," Clint groaned. His legs were trembling as he struggled to support himself. "I'm Clint. Let's leave, shall we?"

Will snapped from his trance. His slumped shoulders once again lifted, and he appeared just as he had before: confident and in charge, just as a captain should. But his eyes now glittered with new purpose, fresh anger. "I'll cover you," he said, looking Astrid in the eyes. "Just keep moving."

Astrid nodded and clumsily made her way forwards, half dragging, half carrying Clint. She had been through so much training and conditioning over the past year, and it seemed as if all that work had abandoned her. Her muscles were quivering with exhaustion. Her eyes drooped from the weak sedatives, and her knees buckled several times beneath her. She was simply stumbling along behind Will as he tore down the guards one by one.

Maybe hours passed. Maybe it was only minutes. To Astrid, time seemed to have no meaning. Clint's breathing was ragged in her ear, and finally, she collapsed, the SHIELD agent falling as well. Will glanced back and faltered. The guard in front of him smacked into his shield, and Will turned his attention back to the fight. He worked faster, being less careful with his blows. Earlier, Astrid had been able to tell that he was trying _not_ to gravely wound his opponents. Now, he was bashing into them with enough force to crack concrete.

Darkness clouded Astrid's vision, and breathing began to get harder and harder. With a shock, she realized that Clint had fallen _on_ her, and he was unconscious. She uselessly clawed at the floor, trying to pull herself up, but her fingernails just slid uselessly across the tiles. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and just as she was starting to lose consciousness, Clint was lifted off of her, and she gasped in a breath and blinked the black spots from her eyes.

"_Astrid!_" Will's voice sounded like he was underwater. "_Listen to me! You need to get up. I'll carry him, but I need you to cover us. It isn't much farther. Can you do that?_"

Her brain was clouded with haze, but she slowly pushed herself up. "'Kay," she mumbled.

"_Good_," Will praised. His entire figure was blurry. "_Here._" He handed her his shield. The hydra emblem was streaked with blood. Its empty eye sockets glared up at her. "_We're almost there. You can do this, Astrid._"

"I can do this," she repeated. The sound of more running soldiers met her ears, and he began to stalk forwards, setting her feet down heavily and firmly. It was too loud, she knew, but they would be found eventually. Besides, it was the only way she could walk without being completely disoriented and dizzy. One foot in front of the other.

The first of the squad ran to meet her, and she backhanded him clumsily with Will's shield. It wasn't the prettiest of blows, but it worked. The soldier's body slammed into the floor with a thud. The others weren't far behind. "_Great job, Astrid! Keep going! We're so close!_"

She plowed through the next squad, tearing them down. Every blow she aimed made its mark. Every soldier fell at her hands. And each strike made her more and more upset. They rounded a corner and found themselves standing in front of the way out. But there was a singular soldier standing between them and the door. He was young, maybe eighteen. His eyes were full of fear. He was shakily pointing a gun at them. Suddenly the shield weighed too much. She couldn't raise it. "I can't…" she whispered, staggering.

"_Astrid!_" Will called. She caught a hazy glimpse of him as she fell to her knees. Clint was barely standing, his skin pale and eyes rolled back in their sockets. Will was covered in fresh bruises, and he was struggling to support both himself and Clint.

"I… don't want to hurt anyone," she mumbled. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. The cold, hard floor beneath her was so comfortable. Astrid wanted to curl up in a little ball and fall asleep. Sleep. Sweet sleep. HYDRA couldn't reach her in her sleep. She'd be safe.

But her thoughts were overrun by a noise, loud and sharp and grating against her ears. A memory resurfaced, one that they hadn't made her lose, but that she had simply forgotten over the past few months. Carl the intern's pencil, the scratching of the lead on his pad of paper weaving its way into her dreams. Astrid couldn't take that, not again. Not waking up in the same room and going through the motions over and over until the demons who 'owned' her were satisfied. With renewed strength, she rose, took a few steps forwards, and, swinging her arm first back and then forwards, she hurled the HYDRA shield forwards.

There was a short, _deafeningly_ loud crack as the soldier fired his gun. But his shot was about as unlucky as it could have been. It glanced off of the shield, sailing harmlessly into the wall. The shield itself spun in midair, and hit him in the head with the surface rather than the side. The boy crumpled, unconscious, and the shield clattered to the floor.

Astrid retrieved it, and together, she and Will dragged Clint, now completely unable to stand on his own, out into the night. Will hijacked a Jeep they found nearby, a simple tan color without a roof or doors. Astrid sat in the back with Clint, cradling the SHIELD agent's head in her lap, and trying to keep him still while Will took off at over eighty miles an hour down the abandoned, bumpy trail. There was no gate, no guards, just a rough dirt road leading away from the HYDRA building, the same color as the desert around it. Despite the alarms blaring uselessly behind them, they had done it. They were free.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, the Triskelion, Washington, DC<br>**Natasha's POV**

Natasha was sick of being told to calm down. She'd been kicked out of almost every floor in the Triskelion, due to complaints from other agents and staff. Apparently, they found her pacing to be 'distracting,' and weren't amused by the 'hostile' way she hissed at anyone who came near her, like that one time a young intern had offered her coffee and had gotten thrown across the room like a ragdoll. Added to the fact that no one was comfortable with an agitated assassin on their floor, she had been left to pace in the main lobby.

Coulson had been assigned to watch her, of course. Everyone else Fury had told to watch her – a small, pale man with freckles and thick glasses who had squealed and fainted when he'd been told his new job, a big, beefy woman who had tried to calm Natasha down and had ended up with five broken ribs and a severe concussion, and a man who had run away screaming when Natasha had calmed down enough to try to talk to him – weren't cut out for the job.

That day, Phil had gotten permission to take her to a park nearby for a walk. Fury had agreed immediately, already getting complaints that people were scared to come into work with her pacing around in the lobby.

The day was cool. Not cold, but not too warm, either. However, it was drizzling. Most people (i.e. people who had better things to do than wander around in the rain like lost little puppies waiting for their coworkers to find a man who'd gone missing almost a month earlier) were avoiding the outdoors. There weren't any families, to Natasha's relief, just a few weary joggers.

The two of them sat down on a slightly-damp bench and said nothing to each other for almost fifteen minutes. It wasn't an uncomfortable, awkward silence, exactly. More of a depressed one. For a while, Natasha wondered if Phil had planned it like this, just to sit in the drizzling rain for a few hours and then take shelter in a nearby café when it really started to pour, an expected eventuality. But that wasn't the case at all.

Phil broke the silence first. "Do you ever wish you had a family?" he blurted out almost randomly.

Natasha didn't know how to answer. She turned and found herself looking Phil in the eyes, unable to come up with a reasonable reply. "Well… I don't know," she said finally. For once, she was telling the truth. "I guess I've never really considered it an option before. And besides, I haven't had very good experiences with childhood before." She almost added how she felt like it would be irresponsible, and even to some extents how downright _cruel_ it would be to bring a child into the world with her occupation, but she caught herself just in time.

Phil only studied her for a moment. His eyes held a question, as if he wanted to say, "You are one of the most puzzling people I've ever met," but didn't want to risk the question. Then his eyes flicked to something just past her head and he stiffened.

Natasha didn't turn around. "What is it?" she asked quietly. She tensed her own muscles, ready to spring into action at his command.

"There's a kid. Looks about fifteen. He's alone. Wearing a black jacket and dark jeans. His hood is pulled up. He's walked past that tree about five times already."

Natasha felt confusion roll over her. "And?"

Phil kept his voice even and calm as he replied, "And he's got a shield like Captain America's slung over his back. Only his has the HYDRA emblem on it."

Natasha was on her feet in an instant, racing over to the kid faster than she'd ever run before. "You! Hands in the air, right now!" she snarled. Phil was at her side, too, but he wasn't holding her back. His gun was in hand, just as hers was, and the look on his face was enraged.

The kid turned around, hands in the air, and knelt. His head lowered. "Please, I can explain," he started. Natasha cut him off with a harsh, cold laugh.

"Explain? How do you explain that symbol on your back, then? Hmm?" Natasha held the gun to his head and pressed it to his temple as Phil checked him for weapons, but Coulson came up empty handed.

"He doesn't have any weapons," Phil said. "No bugs, either."

"Just let me explain!" begged the boy. He looked horribly similar, like a teenage version of Steve Rogers.

"You have sixty seconds to convince me not to shoot you. Start talking," Natasha threatened, her voice low.

"Clint Barton!" the kid yelped. "Does that name mean anything to you?! Have you heard of SHIELD?" His voice was full of terror and desperation.

_Clint_. That got Natasha's attention. "What about him? What do you want, a ransom?"

"No! No, no, no. We're helping him, we—"

"Who's we?" Phil butted in.

"Me, me and Astrid. The two of us were test subjects, HYDRA test subjects. Astrid figured it out, she's the one who found Clint. She convinced me to help, and we got out." His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast that Natasha could only just understand what he was saying.

"Slow down," she ordered. "Why are you here?"

"Because… because…" The boy couldn't find the words. Panic was swelling in his eyes.

Phil sighed. "What's your name?"

"Will. My name is Will." He seemed to find assurance in his name. "I'm here to help you. HYDRA is planning something. Something big that involved me, Astrid, Clint, and four others. Please, I don't want to hurt anyone else. We never wanted to hurt anyone."

Natasha slowly lowered her gun. "Fine. Just answer me this. How did you know we'd be here?" she growled.

Will shook his head helplessly. "Clint said to go to the Triskelion. It isn't hard to find, even in a city like this. He said not to march right up and tell you what I was there for. He said to take the shield and walk around with it nearby. Have my hood up, don't talk to anyone, just find one public spot and stand around with the shield on my back. He said your people would notice. They'd confront me, and I'd tell them what I told you. And I would tell you where to find him."

"Where is he?" Natasha demanded immediately. Her heart pounded with anticipation, and the boy swallowed, glancing around.

"I don't…"

"I asked you where he is. Tell me where he is!" Natasha spat.

"Natasha," Phil warned.

"I don't know!" the boy cried. "I don't know where he is at this very second. He could be in a sewer with Astrid. Hell, he could be lying face-down in a ditch covered in leaves. All I know is that wherever they are, Astrid is taking care of him." He gazed into her eyes, for the first time during the confrontation showing a little confidence. "And I also know where he's going to be in approximately twenty four hours."


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Clintasha alert! Just to warn you.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>_**  
><strong>_Two weeks earlier, somewhere in Arizona  
><strong>Will's POV<strong>

Somehow, Will managed to find a city… well, more of a town. It was tiny, barely a hundred residents (or so he was told by the dusty, rust-covered sign that said, 'Welcome to -, Population: 104.' He had no idea what the city was called. It looked like someone had scratched out the name of the town a long time ago.

He slowed considerably, pulling to a stop in the parking lot of "Joe's Motel," a grubby looking place that appeared to have been attacked by at least two sandstorms a day for the past forty years. The neon sign flickered weakly. The windows were encrusted with years of grime and grunge. Will wrinkled his nose. He didn't want to spend a night here, but the Jeep was running on fumes, and he was exhausted. A glance in the mirror told him that Astrid was, too. Clint was still out cold.

Will dug through the glove compartment, under the seats, and in the back of the car, and he was able to scrape up just under twenty dollars in cash. "Wait here," he said to Astrid. For a moment, he wasn't sure she'd heard him, but then she nodded, her eyes barely open.

The screen door of the motel shrieked open, and a bored-looking man with a big grey beard and an even larger belly glanced up at him from behind the counter. He grunted, spitting the butt of a cigarette into his ashtray. "What d'you want, kid?" he muttered, sitting forwards with a groan. "If you ain't got a reason to be here, scram."

Will was taken aback by the man's bluntness. For a moment, he stood, blinking stupidly and breathing in the stale, cigarette-scented air. Then he came to his senses. "Um… I'm here with my sister and our uncle. We need a room for the night?" That came out as more of a question than a statement. Not what he'd been intending.

"You got an ID?" the man growled lowly.

"I… no."

"Then get, you little rat." The man pulled another cigarette from a box in his shirt pocket and lit it quickly like he'd been doing it for years, which he probably had been.

Will swallowed back a few choice words. "Sir, my uncle's sick. We don't have anywhere to go. Please, we just need a room for the night."

The man sighed and put the cigarette between his teeth, gazing at Will with a contemplating look in his eyes. Finally, he said, "Fifteen-fifty, son, but you'd better be outta here by seven thirty tomorrow mornin'." Will nodded gratefully and set the cash on the counter, taking the key the man handed him and leaving quickly. On his way out, he bought a bottle of water from the dust covered vending machine next to the door, having a hunch that they wouldn't want to drink water from the tap there.

Between the two of them, Will and Astrid managed to carry Clint into the motel room. They set him gently on the floor, closing and locking the door behind them. Astrid checked the kitchen area while Will checked the beds. He found nothing worrying, no roaches or bedbugs, so they moved Clint onto the bed that was the least dusty. The agent groaned, a rusty, horrible sound, and his eyes fluttered open. "Where… what happened?"

"We got away," Will said quietly, spacing out as he stared at the wall. "We did it. We're free." He was surprised by how emotionless his voice was. Not happy. Not excited. Just empty.

Astrid was quiet, too. Will looked at her and his heart skipped a beat. Grey eyes unfocused and dull, almost lifeless. Light brown hair disheveled and sticking up at weird angles. Dark circles under her eyes. The bruise on her face, once almost healed, was now darker than ever. Her black uniform was tattered, and there was a tear in the fabric on her left bicep, where something had cut straight through the material and left a gash on her arm.

"Astrid?" Clint struggled to sit up. There was caution in his eyes, so closely resembling Astrid's. HYDRA had chosen their mini-Barton well, Will realized. He could almost see them as father and daughter. Astrid didn't respond, just staring off into space at nothing. "Astrid," Clint said, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone. "Look at me."

There was a long pause, a long silence before her eyes fluttered and she sluggishly focused on Clint. Even then, it was like Astrid was only half there with them, and the rest of her was off a million miles away.

"Astrid, is something wrong?"

Confusion crossed her features. Then she said, "I hurt people."

"You did what you had to do," Will said uneasily.

"But…" she trailed off. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"You got us out, Astrid," Will insisted, starting to really worry. "Just… just listen, okay? If you hadn't done what you had to, we'd still be back at that HYDRA base, thinking we were the Avengers while Clint rotted in that room. HYDRA used us, Astrid. They took our lives away and forced us to be what we aren't. They are the reason we are lost in the Middle of Nowhere, Arizona, running for our lives. They got what was coming to them."

Her eyes focused on Will more closely, but now they held a sort of fire. "They may have gotten what was coming to them," she said, her voice low, "but I hurt people. People I didn't even know. They could have been bad, but they might have been good people who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, who were caught by the wrong people. That makes me every bit as bad as they are."

Will didn't know how to answer that, but at least she was just the shell he had been afraid she was. Astrid sat on the other bed and pulled off her boots, dropping them on the floor before lying down and then rolling onto her side so she was facing away from them. "You're sleeping on the floor," she said over her shoulder. Within seconds, Will was pretty sure she was asleep.

Clint gave a rusty chuckle, and Will looked at him. "What?"

"Man, you're terrible at giving speeches. Well, compared to the real Cap. Honestly, they really didn't get that part, did they?" Will opened his mouth to argue that he'd done his best, but Clint cut him off. "And you're _never_ going to get a girlfriend that way."

"What? What the heck are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on," Clint said, exasperated. "Clearly, you've got a thing for her. Believe me, she isn't gonna be attracted to you if all you do is say, 'You did a good job, soldier. You got the job done and did what had to be done.' That _never_ works with women. Well, it works with the ones who already fawn over you, but not the _good_ ones. You know the ones I'm talking about?" Will tried to protest that no, he didn't know 'the ones' Clint was talking about, but Clint kept right on talking. "See, _my_ girl is tricky. Well, she isn't really mine. If anything, I'm _hers_. We've got a really complicated relationship. I'm not going to try and explain it to you, it'll take a week. Scratch that, trying to explain my relationship with Tasha will take _years_."

"Clint," Will interrupted. Clint looked at him. "I don't have a crush on Astrid. Yes, I find her attractive, but I've just met her, really. Yeah, I've known her for a few months, but I knew her as Clint and she knew me as Steve. Now we're two completely different people, and I have no intentions of finding a girlfriend any time soon."

"Eh. If you say so, kid. But you're gonna find your own Peggy Carter sometime soon, and you're gonna fall head over heels for her. My bet's on Astrid."

"Who's Peggy Carter?"

"Good lord, they _really_ didn't do a good job recreating Captain America, did they?"

Will didn't know how to respond to that.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Will woke up to the pain in his neck and swiveled his head so he could stare up at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 5:12 am. Time to move. He pushed himself up off of the floor and gathered their things, wiping down everything for finger prints and slipping the shield over his shoulders like a backpack. He really despised the HYDRA emblem, but it was a powerful weapon. He would need it, sooner or later.<p>

Astrid was still asleep, dead to the world, and Will decided it was best not to wake her. He carried her out to the Jeep, set her in the back, and went back in for Clint. "What?" Clint growled, his morning voice deep and raspy.

"Time to go," Will said, dragging Clint out of his bed. The agent protested half-heartedly, but he gave up quickly and let Will carry him out to the car.

"Did you have to wake me up?" he moaned. "Astrid's still asleep."

"I would've woken her up, too, but I was worried she would've ripped my head off."

"Oh, so you have no problem waking up a master assassin, but you're too scared to wake up a teenage girl?"

"A very dangerous teenage girl who I suspect has some serious anger issues," Will corrected. "Believe me. She's more terrifying than you think."

Will checked the place one more time, straightening the beds and checking for finger prints again, but everything seemed in order. So, his every instinct urging him to move, he shut the door behind him, careful not to leave any fingerprints, got into the driver's seat, and drove off, knowing that sooner or later he'd have to ditch the Jeep.

* * *

><p>One week later, somewhere in Missouri<br>**Clint's POV**

Clint didn't like how slowly they were going. Astrid didn't know how to drive (without crashing into something), he himself wasn't in the condition to drive, and even if some of the 'super serum' that made Captain America a super soldier _could_ have been passed onto him through the white-wash, it wasn't likely. Besides, he was no more productive than any other sleep-deprived human being. Clint was pretty sure he was just Will and not Super-Will.

They all agreed that somehow they had to get Clint to a hospital. Unfortunately, they also agreed that the best situation would put them in D.C., in SHIELD territory, where they were safe. That way they would be the safest. But D.C. was still half a country away.

As much as Clint hated to admit it, he missed Tasha. A lot. He wanted her to find them, to save the day and get them to the nearest hospital and seriously screw up any HYDRA creeps that came within a 50-mile radius. That was the way things would happen, if it was a movie. But it wasn't a movie. This was all really happening, and even if Clint had been in worse situations, he was having a hard time thinking positive.

"As long as we get to D.C., I'll be fine," Clint said for the millionth time as Will groggily parked the car on the side of an abandoned dirt road. They had switched cars over ten times, all in big cities where HYDRA would have more trouble tracking them. This one was a Cadillac, a really nice one, with tinted windows and fancy upholstery that would probably never be white again after all the dried blood that had flaked off of Clint's numerous wounds.

Astrid wasn't completely back to normal after her brief 'I'm-as-bad-as-HYDRA' episode, but she was a heck of a lot better. She was fiery enough to haggle their way into the rooms of cheap motels, at least, and they'd gathered a lot more money than they had found in the Jeep. It was almost enough to get gasoline.

Clint slowly slid from the passenger side door and leaned against the car and waited for Astrid, who they had agreed would be Clint's official helper. Will was barely able to keep himself upright. She helped him towards the ancient house they were staying at. No current occupants, no one to bother them or call the police. It was in the middle of nowhere. Also a plus. And the house (very small and unappealing) would be the last place HYDRA would think to look for them. That also meant it was the last place SHIELD (or Tasha) would think to look. So they were still on their own.

It took about five minutes for the trio to determine that the house was relatively uninhabitable and that they couldn't keep running. They kids, as Clint thought of them, set him down on the floor where he could lean against the wall, and then sat across from him. "What are we going to do?" Will yawned. "We can't keep this up. We need a better plan."

"SHIELD," Astrid said immediately. "They'll be able to help us."

"How? They don't even know the two of us exist." Will yawned again. "If you're suggesting that we go to the police, we're gambling that SHIELD will get to us first, and I'm not so sure they'll be able to. We're HYDRA property. They won't let us go without a fight."

"Astrid's right," Clint said, his heart sinking. "Our only chance is to get their attention."

"How?" Will demanded. "If HYDRA finds us, you're dead and Astrid and I are back in cages. I don't want to risk it."

"Neither do I, but what choice to we have?" Astrid pointed out. Clint's eyes studied the emblem on Jr. America's shield. The skull glared at him, as if to say, 'You're missing the obvious solution, idiot. It's right in front of your face.'"

"Okay," he said finally. "We need to get SHIELD's attention quietly. To do that, we need something that threatens them. Something that scares them enough to make them act. The Triskelion is home territory, so I think it would be best if we hit them close to home. But what to do…"

"SHIELD and HYDRA are rival agencies, right?" Astrid asked.

"Yeah, but for the longest time, SHIELD believed that HYDRA had fallen. That it didn't exist anymore. A lot of people still believe they're gone." He paused. "I thought they were gone."

"So… What would happen if we took that thing," Astrid said, nodding to the shield, "and rubbed it in their faces?"

Clint paled. "What are you suggesting?"

"Something dangerous that could possibly get us killed."

Will pulled a pad of paper from his back pocket, one they'd found in the Jeep's glove compartment, and a pen from the minivan they'd stolen five cars ago. "I get the feeling we have to write this down," he said wearily.

"If you want to, by all means." Astrid looked Clint in the eyes and said, "We can use the shield against them. You say we have to scare them? I'd be pretty terrified if the face of an old enemy just happened to pop up on my home turf."

Clint nodded, starting to realize that Astrid's plan was the best one they'd come up with. "Okay, here's what we do," he said, sitting up a little straighter and wincing from the pain in his back. "One of us runs up ahead to D.C., and the other two stay behind. It's faster to send one of you two, since I can't move very well. Stand around at a public space, and just act normal. But hold the shield on your back, like Captain America. Walk around a bit, don't talk to anyone… They'll notice that for sure. When they come at you, probably with guns, you ask them if they've heard of Clint Barton. Tell them you know where I'll be in about twenty four hours. That's gonna keep you alive for at least a while."

"And what happens when they bring that person in?" Will questioned.

Clint thought for a moment. "First off, we have to find a place for the other two to be at. Preferably a hospital. We need to have fake identities to use, which we can come up with here in a minute."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, time out," Astrid said. The other two looked at her. "I'm an athlete. I know that the ICU of any hospital is going to want to know who we are, and if we don't actually exist, we're dead meat. They'll help us, alright, but the police will get involved."

"That's where SHIELD comes in. Will, since you're the one who can drive and can probably move around better, you'll be going to D.C. You're going to write down some fake information in that notebook, and you're going to tell them that we need to be those people. They'll do the rest."

"Then what?" Will asked.

"Well," Clint said, "then send Natalie Rushman to be with her husband and daughter."

* * *

><p>One week later, the Triskelion, Washington, D.C.<br>**Natasha's POV**

The kid sat, fidgeting nervously in his chair as Natasha came into the interrogation room. She sat across from him, muscles tensed, and said, "You've got thirty minutes to convince me that I'm not making a mistake by letting you into the Triskelion."

"I had one week to get to D.C. That was a week ago. In about twenty four hours, two people are going to check into this hospital," Will slid a notebook over the table to her. The name of the hospital, the memorial something or other in a big city in Iowa, was written in big bold letters and had been circled repeatedly with black ink. "Clint said that they'd need aliases. He said that your people could set up those fake identities easily enough. Those aliases are on the next few pages. Chris and Andrea Rushman. Girl brings her half-dead daddy into the ICU, says Mama's on the way, and Natalie turns up a few hours later to be with her family. Natalie's persona is in there, too."

"You thought this through, didn't you?" Natasha said slowly, flipping the page and gazing at what they'd come up with. It was detailed.

"We had to. It took a few hours, but Clint's good at this kind of thing. Astrid helped to. I just wrote it all down."

Natasha stared into his eyes for a moment, her face expressionless as she tried to see what was going through his mind. All she saw was desperation and honesty. "Okay, then. So, Mama Bear Natalie shows up and saves the day? How is that supposed to work?"

"Natalie is only there to keep the others safe for a few hours, make sure that HYDRA's keeping their distance. After that period of time, SHIELD shows up and makes them disappear."

Natasha thought for a moment. "Will, I want to believe you. I really do. But you need to give me a reason to," she said finally.

Will swallowed nervously. "Um…" His eyes brightened, and he said, "Oh! Clint said you might say that. Go to the very last page. He wrote something there for you and said not to read it, so I didn't."

Hesitantly, Natasha flipped to the final page and gasped. What was written there was all the proof she needed to know that this was real, that Will was telling the truth, and she could save Clint.

* * *

><p>Five months earlier, BartonRomanoff mission, location classified  
><strong>Natasha's POV<strong>

There was a storm outside, rattling the filthy windows of the abandoned shack they were staying in. There was no heating, no plumbing, and certainly nothing that would offer any comfort besides each other. The desert was cold at night, much colder than Natasha thought it should be. They'd been in worse situations, of course, but this one was especially miserable. All Natasha could think was, _At least I have Clint_.

They were snuggled under the one blanket they had between the two of them, struggling to find any heat in the seemingly freezing desert. Clint was on his back, one arm around her, and she was on her side, both arms around him and her head on his shoulder. He smelled good, like lavender. It was probably the shampoo he'd used before they'd left for wherever they were.

Natasha squirmed a bit, trying to get comfortable, and she set her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was steady, rhythmic, and above all, comforting. She began to drift off, completely at ease, when he said her name.

"Tasha."

Natasha's eyes fluttered open. "Mm?" she replied groggily.

"Just wanted to see if you were still awake."

"I was almost asleep, if that makes any difference," she said, rolling her eyes to herself.

A chuckle reverberated in his chest, making her smile. "Sorry." He wasn't sorry. "You can go back to sleep, now." He didn't care whether or not she fell asleep. Either way, she was still with him. Natasha knew that was all he really cared about.

"No," she said, sighing a yawn. "You woke me up, so you're going to talk to me." That meant _I want to talk to you_. He got the message, just as he always did.

"Okay," he said. _Anything for you_. "What do you want to talk about?" _I'll tell you anything you want to hear_.

"Say something." _Say anything_.

"Tasha." His voice was quiet, gentle.

"Clint."

There was silence for a moment. Then: "You make a good pillow, Clint."

"And you're a fabulous teddy bear." _I don't want to ever let you go_. Natasha sighed. He pulled her closer, and she snuggled closer to him. "Tasha."_ You are the most amazing person in my life_.

"Clint." _You're the best thing to ever happen to me_.

"Tasha." For a moment, she wondered if there was anything else he was going to say, or if she should say his name again. Then he said the three words that she couldn't bear, the words that meant exactly what were: "I love you." He'd said that to her more times than she could count, and, each time, she answered the same way.

"Love is for children." _I can't love you_.

He rolled onto his side, facing her, and pulled her close. His beautiful grey eyes locked onto her green ones and held her gaze. "Maybe," he said, "but in some ways I never grew up, and I never will." _That's okay. I still love you, and I always will_.

And, even if it was completely against her every instinct, Natasha loved him for that.

* * *

><p>Five months later, the Triskelion, Washington D.C.<br>**Natasha's POV**

Will stared at her, concern growing in his blue eyes. "Agent Romanoff?" he asked politely. "Is something wrong?" Written in Clint's messy scrawl at the very bottom of the page were the words she needed to hear the most, the words that made everything okay.

_Love is for children? I never grew up. You just grew up too fast_.


End file.
